The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Fifty-Four

The Major shook Book awake roughly. He was in a small machine room, the hub of dozens of conduits and pipes that controlled . . . God knew what. Something unimportant. It did not have the feel of a room that was visited often. One wall was curved, the exterior of one of the big reactors he guessed. He was sitting in a cheap folding metal chair, the kind you saw in poor churches and cheap banquet halls. His hands were still bound behind his back, his shoulders uncomfortably numb from the long time he had assumed that position. The room smelt of lubricants and stale air, cleaning chemicals and reactor coolants. The sole illumination came from a portable harsh white utility light near the door. “Good morning, Shepherd,” the Major said pleasantly. “I trust you slept well?” Book did not answer immediately. His mouth was dry. When he finally did summon the moisture to speak clearly, he focused on the issue foremost in his mind. “Tell me he’s dead,” he whispered. “Tell me he died in the revivification.” It happened, sometimes. People did not always come out of hibernation properly, especially when they had been down for a long time. “Oh, our dear Master is very much alive and well. In full possession of his critical faculties, I assure you. He lives.” “God . . . must be sleeping,” he choked out. “I’ve heard your God is dead, Shepherd. In the ancient Kuo Ming dynasty, they considered all of the gods to be dead. Emperor Mao was quite adamant about it.” “He ain’t dead. You think that, you ain’t paying proper attention to the ‘verse.” The Major smiled. “Perhaps. Would you care for a drink?” Book eyed the younger man – who was a man grown four generations before Book had been born – with suspicion. “I’d love one.” The Major took a canteen off of his belt and uncapped it. He gently held it to the Shepherd’s lips, and waited for the man to drink his fill. “Thank you,” the old man said when he was done. “You’ve done me a kindness.” “Actually,” the Major said, with an air of regret, “I haven’t. The Master dislikes it when his subjects pass out due to dehydration. While a human being can survive for up to four days without water, when put under duress it’s far easier to lapse into unconsciousness. The Master prefers his subjects as awake and aware as possible.” “I stand corrected,” Book muttered. “Then I take it I’m destined for . . .” “Intense interrogation? Yes, of course. You have the honor of being the first subject to endure the interest of Shan Yu in over a century.” “Wouldn’t he find it more useful to question the others? Not that I’d ever wish them harm, mind, but I’m not likely to have the information you seek.” “Oh, he will, no doubt. And he will extract from them everything that he needs. He always does. But they are young men – they are just barely learning who they are. The Master prefers to work with men of more experience. It isn’t just about cracking a man’s head open – any frontier-world thug could accomplish that. When the Master works, he gleans intelligence as a by-product. A peace offering. When a man enters the Master’s lab, he may well despair before he leaves that telling the Master what he knows is the beginning of his torment, not its end.” “How charming. You trying to scare me, son?” The Major smiled as he adjusted the light to shine directly into Book’s face. “No, Shepherd, that’s entirely unnecessary. Anything that I could say to you would fall so short of the actual experience as to be dishonest. I’m merely making an observation. Have you ever been tortured before?” “Would it matter if I had?” The Major considered. “Perhaps not. Well, I must see to my men – we are vacating this position soon for one more defendable. We’ve had quite the population explosion in the last few hours. But I told the Master I would see to you before I departed. He wanted a meal first – quite understandable, considering how long we’ve been asleep.” He bowed shortly and left. It was another fifteen minutes or so – hard to tell in this room – before the door once again opened and revealed the Tyrant of Yuan, the Warlord, the despot, the dictator, the butcher of Xiao . . . his titles were legion. He had embraced them in his works, a full five volumes on the glory of war and the purity of pain. Book was almost ashamed he had let himself be fascinated by them, once upon a time. But now he was faced with the cruel reality. The most despised man in two hundred years, on par with Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin, Cordova, Hu, the Black Emperor, Captain Wentworth . . . a man who was responsible for the painful death of millions, the majority of them innocent of any crime but living. Shan Yu. The Devil, Himself. “Shepherd Book,” Shan Yu said as he entered the room. He was a tall man, thin, with white wispy hair and a thin beard and mustache. He wore a long coat the color of ivory, with powder blue trim at the cuffs and collar. A matching cap sat firmly on his head, and his face wore a calm, almost serene smile. “The major has told me so much about you.” Behind him a White Tiger came in pushing a cart. Book didn’t have to guess too hard to figure out what was under the cloth on the cart. “I’d say it was a pleasure,” Book said quietly, “but that might be stretching the truth more than I’m comfortable with.” “Then you know who I am,” Shan Yu said conversationally. “I know what you are.” “I will let that pass. We are to become acquainted, you and I. We are going to become closer than brothers before we are done here.” “You mean torture,” Book spat. “I know what you do.” “Torture is such an insufficient word for ‘what I do’. I am a finder of truths. I bring the cleansing light of pain to illuminate the souls of men. Surely, as a priest, you can appreciate the value of that.” “There is no value in unnecessary suffering!” “Ah, but this suffering is necessary. I need to know things, Shepherd.” “You could try asking.” “I could. And I will. But I think first I need to show you a few things, before we begin our discussion.” He nodded to the White Tiger, who took the sheet off of the cart, revealing all manner of tools and appliances. “I’m afraid my personal tools are missing – probably in a museum somewhere, by now – but my men were able to assemble these substitutes, for our chat. Primitive, some of them, but effective.” “You trying to scare me?” “Why, yes. Yes I am.” “I’ve seen tools before.” “No doubt you have. And no doubt you have some idea of what use I intend to put them. But already you can feel the fear, can’t you?” Book shrugged. “It’s just pain. A thing of the mind. The Lord can shield me from it, should He chose.” “An interesting attitude. But the tools were just one of the things I wished to show you, before we begin. Corporal?” The White Tiger strode forward, at attention. “Warlord!” “Corporal, what is your name?” “Master! My name is Han So Fen, if it pleases my lord!” “And how long have you been in my service, Han?” “It was nine years, before I was frozen, Warlord!” “Nine years. Quite a long time. I believe you were cited five times for exceptional valor before you joined the 35th, and twice afterwards. Yet you declined promotion thrice. Why is that?” “Master! Accepting promotion would have required that I transfer out of your direct service! I did not wish that, Sir!” “Of course. Even when you had the opportunity to accept a commission in the Imperial Guard, you declined. More pay, higher rank, a more prestigious unit – and yet you pledged to remain with me. Why is that?” “Master! Once a White Tiger, you die a White Tiger!” “Excellent, excellent. What do you think, Shepherd?” “Blind obedience and fanaticism are all too common. I find myself unimpressed.” “Do you know that when a White Tiger takes their vow, and swears themselves to my service, that they receive an implant? A tiny computer, hooked into the auditory nerve. It records everything they hear. It means that every ear on every White Tiger is my ear. They know this before they take the oath, and yet they do so anyway, forever giving up any personal right to privacy.” “That’s quite a commitment.” “Indeed. Did you know that in addition to the computer, the implant surrounds their spinal cord at the neck with a small shaped charge that can be detonated, killing the Tiger instantly? It ensures their complete loyalty. It ensures that despite all of the plots and schemes of my enemies, I always had one fighting force I could depend upon, utterly. Every Tiger has a code – and only I know that code. There’s one that would kill them all, should they hear it. But I alone know it. I had the programmer who created the function executed. I alone. No one else in the entire universe. All I must do is speak it, and the computer detects it and detonates the charge, severing the spinal column and destroying the brainstem. Death is quick, almost painless. One phrase from me, and they die. They know this as the price of their service. Yet they take the oath anyway.” “Am I supposed to be impressed?” “You are. For a man to commit himself to another man, any man, in such a way demonstrates a profound depth of his soul. The Tigers are my greatest tool, the backbone of my personal strength. No finer military force has existed in the history of man.” “You got an awfully high opinion of yourself, don’t you? They’re good soldiers, I grant you. But they are nothing special. Just men, serving an evil man.” “Evil? I – but we shall get to that later. I wanted to show you Corporal Han as an example of my strength. He is one of a few, a precious few men I have to rely upon in this new time. One of the few of my contemporaries left in the entire universe. He is valuable and precious to me. It is unfortunate that he suffered some damage in the hibernation process – a blood clot, the medic tells me. It caused a tiny, tiny stroke in his brain. Oh, the effects are subtle, but they are there. He doesn’t move as quickly, doesn’t see as well, he has a small palsy in his left hand, and he has had two severe emotional outbursts since awakening. His speech is ever so slightly slurred. But he is still a rare and precious tool to me, a highly valuable tool.” “Warlord! Thank you, sir!” “You’re welcome, Corporal Han,” Shan Yu said, closing his eyes briefly. “Your service has been exemplary. No mortal man could wish for better. Even with your impaired state, you could still out-fight any three fit men from any other unit in the galaxy. No, no man could ask for a better, more loyal soldier to follow him.” Shan Yu again closed his eyes, and thought for a moment. “Thank you for your service, Han. Vajra Han So Fen Gamma Morituri,” Shan Yu continued. The effect was immediate. The back of the corporal’s neck exploded neatly with a loud pop, sending a spray of blood and bone to splatter against the wall behind him. His head lolled forward, but he was kept from complete decapitation by the flap of skin at his throat. The body pitched forward without a sound. Shan Yu watched it fall, then turned serenely back to Book. “He was a valuable tool. You, I don’t even know you. Tell me, Shepherd, are you scared yet?” Book stared the man in the eye. “Hear me Lord, and guide this poor lost soul into the presence of thy eternal grace; let his sins be washed from him and his spirit be cleansed from the wickedness of his life; let him be comforted by Thine holy countenance, and taught in death the error of his worldly life. Amen.” Shan Yu chuckled. “You didn’t bat an eyelash. Didn’t call me names. Didn’t protest one bit.” “Wouldn’t have done much good, now would it? I knew you were going to slay him the moment you called his name. You have the stench of Death upon you. Best I could do is ask the Lord for His mercy.” “Interesting,” commented the Tyrant, tilting his head. “Most preachers would not be as astute.” “I’ve been a lot of things,” admitted Book. “Now, I’m a Shepherd.” He took a deep breath. “So what do you want to hear?” Book asked. “I’d thought I’d save us both some time and give you what you want, up front.” “What? No resistance?” Shan Yu asked, mockingly surprised. “No pleas? No deals?” “Why bother?” “I just had thirty minutes with the two commandos we captured with you. Neither one of them would tell me anything. They are undergoing some . . . electric therapy for a while. I expect that in another hour or two they are likely to be more cooperative.” “They are young and foolish. You want information, just ask me.” “Which tells me you either have no tolerance for pain, whatsoever, and hope to avoid a lengthy session . . . or that you were highly trained in espionage and know the futility of resistance to this level of torture.” “Can’t say as how I’m partial to pain,” admitted Book. “Which is the kind of answer I would expect from an espionage operative. Very well, Shepherd – if you are really a Shepherd—” “You want a sermon to prove it? I have a few on tap.” “As a good operative would, in an undercover position.” Book sighed. “Whatever else I am, you can count on the fact that I was called, ordained, and am currently a real live Shepherd.” “Very well. It matters not. I wish to know why, exactly, you are aboard this vessel.” “Why I, personally, am here, or why we are all here?” “I expect the former would be an amusing tale, but the latter would be more helpful.” “Well, after you were . . . deposed, one of your ministers took the throne of Yuan, sued for peace with Xiao, and inaugurated a golden age for the Empire. As a token of his peaceful intentions, the Emperor sent his most powerful warship – this one – to the core of a gas giant, ostensibly to be destroyed. Your presence aboard was a closely held secret, as was the vast amount of war material and art treasures you had confiscated. The Emperor then made provision among his descendents for retrieval, should the fortunes of his line falter. Which they did, eventually. Yuan and the other Core worlds solidified the informal Alliance, and for the next fifty or so years there was peace and prosperity for all.” Shan Yu paled. “How . . . fortunate for them, that they built their prosperity on the foundation I provided. Continue.” “A large number of worlds were terraformed during that time. But, as all Empires inevitably do, Yuan again declined. The descendents of the Emperor were not up to the task of governance, and about forty or fifty years ago there was a revolution – I think there was a succession crisis or something. In any case, the Emperor was overthrown, and the Alliance stepped in to keep order. Supporters of the ancien regime rose up to restore the Empire, fought the Alliance, and were defeated. The most intractable of them were sent into exile to some terraformation project.” “They were fortunate I was not in charge. They would have been executed, instead.” “The Alliance has a less . . . severe system of judgment,” Book supplied. “Thirty or so years after that, there was another crisis, and once again the supporters of the ancien regime rose up, made a surviving descendent of the Imperial family the Emperor. They fought in a multi-sided war against the Alliance. They lost, too, and were sent into exile to a deep space platform. Both groups of exiles, led by survivors of the Imperial family, formed criminal Tongs, and a few months ago they clandestinely reunited to retrieve this ship, its loot, and its war materials for enrichment and, theoretically, for political gain. The old Emperor rigged the ship against them, however, setting up traps and distractions for them to overcome to prove their worthiness before they could reclaim this prize.” “My successor’s idea is intriguing. He must have been a remarkable man.” “They had to follow some fairly specific instructions to gain control of the Sun Tzu, including the capture of the Bridge, Computer Core, and Engine Room. My team was dedicated to that last task. I can only assume that the Emperor had placed you and your men here as obstacles to prove the family’s worthiness.” Shan Yu stared at Book for a long while, drinking in the data like a man near to death of thirst. He nodded furiously through the last few sentences, and when Book finished he threw up his hands, almost superciliously. “Ah, that is it then. Yes, that does make sense, and fits perfectly into the situation as I understand it. Thank you, Shepherd, that helps out a great deal.” “Have I garnered enough gratitude to warrant a stay from torture?” “Don’t be foolish.” “Just thought I’d ask.” “It was worthwhile asking. But I do have one burning question: which one of my so-called ‘loyal’ ministers betrayed me so? It would have to be one of unusual cunning – Lao, perhaps: the Interior minister was always devious, and his loyalty questionable. No, Lao would have made a show of it, not quietly disposed of me. And he would have cut my throat, rather than risk me returning. No . . . perhaps Chi? Chi was always a shadowy figure, as befits the head of an intelligence service . . . but I had Chi’s wife and children as hostage on Wuhan. How about . . . Liu! Good old jolly Liu, Minister of Communications, always quick with his wit. Thought fast on his feet, he did. He was a Buddhist, too . . .” “Nope. None of them.” “But . . . it can’t be Hogan! The people of Yuan would not permit an Anglic, however loyal to the Empire, to rule them. Hogan was an excellent minister for trade, but hardly a figure of Imperial bearing. Guay? Too cautious. Feng? No, too . . . stupid. A good man with industrial unions, but quite out of his league otherwise.” “It was Lei,” Book finally said. “Lei?” Shan Yu asked, astonished. “Impossible! Lei was my most valiant, my most trusted minister! His loyalty to me was unquestionable. The perfect Confucian gentleman! He was the Prime Minister, and the War Minister! His . . . no, wait. Let me ponder this . . .” “You just take all the time you wish,” Book said agreeably. Shan Yu favored him with a quick smile. “Lei. Lei Fong Wu, how I thought I knew thee. Et tu, Lei? Lei. Emperor Lei. But that does beg the question of why he didn’t . . . oh, well, enough time for speculation later. I’m rather impressed, actually. I didn’t think Lei had it in him.” “From what I gather, it was not a step he took lightly. He felt he was working in the best interests of the Yuanese people.” “By committing regicide?” Shan Yu asked, aghast. “Correct me if I am mistaken, but you never took any formal titles of Royalty,” Book pointed out. “Despite enormous pressure, especially in the early days of your rule, for you to do so. You called yourself Warlord. Dictator would have been more accurate. Generalissimo.” “Bah! A minor detail,” Shan Yu dismissed. “I was Emperor in all but name. But betrayal of one’s oath is tantamount to such a crime. When my men came into my service I made them foreswear an oath to protect me from all harm, uphold my policies, and be loyal to the People of Yuan and their rightful ruler.” “Apparently Lei decided the Mandate had been lost,” Book observed. “And despite your anger over it, I would point out that you are unharmed. You look in excellent health, more’s the pity. Lei did not violate his oath. He merely . . . took a broader interpretation of it.” “Perhaps . . . perhaps. I will have to ponder this betrayal further, when there is more time. But first I want to know about the ‘verse as it exists today: tell me of this empire of the Alliance: does it truly incorporate all worlds?” “There are more than seventy worlds that are Members Parliament today,” recited Book, “And more than half were admitted after the last war – the Unification War, in which Lei’s descendents fought. And dozens more terraformation projects underway.” “Seventy . . . worlds. There were less than forty in my day.” “The frontier worlds you knew: Boros, Persephone, Shadow, Athens – all have become great worlds in their own right. And the Alliance controls it all.” “Then I shall have to control the Alliance,” Shan Yu concluded. “That might be powerful difficult,” Book said. “As impressive as this ship is, as powerful as she is, you and your few men are no match for even one of the Alliance’s cruisers.” “Details,” dismissed Shan Yu. “They have a large military . . . an elected government . . . and unlimited resources. Yet I have this ship. And money. And men. A few now, yes, but I can get more. Trust me, Shepherd, when I say that I could start out a penniless wretch on the street of the meanest of worlds, and end my life ruling all mankind. That is the lot of a living god.” “I’ll thank you not to blaspheme in my presence again!” Book said angrily. “What, a threat to physical violence or death moves you not, and yet you take umbrage at mere aggrandizement? You continue to surprise me, Shepherd.” “Proclaiming yourself a god is not like taking a title, Tyrant. The Almighty is the one that will take umbrage at your claims. You are a man, like anyone else. You eat, sleep, fart and shit just like any other son of Adam. And you are subject to the same divine law that we all are.” “Yet I have controlled the fate of millions – billions! I have leveled cities and wiped out entire cultures. My power has been god-like – why should I not claim the title? Under the Rectification of Names I may do so.” “You have destroyed. You have not created. And even the ancient Emperors of China knew better than to deify themselves so: they were the Son of Heaven, not the Lord of Heaven.” “And they ruled one tiny country on one miserable world. I ruled entire planets! Billions of people. You dislike my godhood? That can be repaired. I take particular pleasure in working on devout Christians. Buddhist monks, too. It is always fascinating to me just how much a devout worshipper can take before he recants his beliefs.” “My faith is strong.” “I shall test that.” “It has been tested before,” Book said, resigned. “And God willing, it will be tested again.” “Should I leave you alive, that is. Did you know that I once brought Bishop Ruon into my lab? He was formulating rebellion amongst the dregs of society – preaching against the war and my government. A most devout man. An impressive speaker. After a week of my influence, he gladly made sacrifice to me as a god, and went back to the slums of Xianping to preach in my name.” “I ain’t him.” “No, you are not. But we shall see who you are, at the end.” The Tyrant stepped over the body of his faithful soldier and examined the contents of the cart. He made a clucking noise at what he saw. “I have to apologize. Very little to work with here. But I shall manage. Let me start, I think, with a little physical preliminary, to get warmed up.” He searched his tools until he pulled a long, thin wire from the top – some sort of antenna. He reached down and unbuttoned Book’s shirt, pulling it down to expose his chest and shoulders. There were scars aplenty there, and one in particular captured his interest. “You were wounded, recently?” “Shot by mistake. The ship I’m on is a smuggler, and there is occasionally a bit of gunplay. Normally I avoid it but . . . sometimes it can’t be helped.” “It has healed, then? And I can see that it isn’t the first such wound your body has suffered.” “I had a rough-and-tumble childhood.” “Complete with 9mm rounds, it seems. And . . . a serrated knife?” “Shaving accident.” “You are willing to give me every detail about your companions, yet you dissemble at a reasonable request about your past . . . you are a fascinating subject, Shepherd.” With that he brought his hand down sharply, and the antenna slashed a line across Book’s chest. The Shepherd winced. “Ready to hail me as a god, then?” “Keep going,” Book said through gritted teeth. The Tyrant did, with sadistic glee. A dozen such stripes blossomed on his chest. Midway through Shan Yu switched hands and angles, until his torso was a pulpy mess of blood. Book stifled his cries until the end. “That . . . all?” he gasped. “With that tool,” conceded Shan Yu. “I want to avoid any permanent damage this early in our acquaintanceship. Plenty of time for that later. But I’ve achieved my preliminary objective,” he said, setting down the antenna and picking up . . . a sponge. “Bath time,” he said with a grin, applying the sponge gently to Book’s chest. The sponge proved to contain a mixture of salt water and some mild acid. Book gave up the pretense of stoicism and howled. “That’s better,” Shan Yu declared. “Let it all out . . . the illusions, the deceits, the pain in your soul . . . let it out.” “So you can study it? Go to hell.” “I can see you aren’t ready to cooperate yet. Sad.” He went back to the cart and came away with a rubber hammer. “A useful tool,” the torturer said hefting it. He brought it down hard on the preacher’s thigh, just above the knee. He did this a half-dozen times, then changed knees. The tools changed, and the method, but the pain was a constant. Never enough to debilitate the man – Shan Yu took a long view of his art – but enough to cause hideous pain. The simplest of objects he turned into elements of torture. A plastic bag was held over his nose and mouth until he nearly passed out, gasping. A rapidly rotating wire brush was brought to bear on his back and shoulders. Sharp shards of plastic were inserted under his fingernails. Boiling water was applied to his feet. Book’s screams rang out. So did his prayers. “I beseech thee, Lord, to reach out thy hand and deliver they servant, should it be thy will!” he begged. “If not, then grant to me the strength to endure these minor injuries, to the glory of thy name!” “Oh, shut up,” grumbled Shan Yu. “I’ve barely touched you. Are you willing to acknowledge my divinity yet?” “Just . . . your damnation, you minion of Hell,” the preacher roared back. “That’s hardly charitable. Come, now, you are not just any preacher, Book. The scars tell otherwise. What did you do in your youth? Not . . . not a gang, I’m guessing. Criminals always work to their best personal advantage.” He readjusted the light until it shone directly into Book’s eyes. “A policeman, perhaps?” “Mind your own gorram business,” the Shepherd growled weakly, a trickle of blood and spittle running down his chin. He tried to move his head out of the way of the light, but was unsuccessful. “A soldier, then? Or a spy. An assassin.” “Get . . . back . . . to work . . . old man,” he growled. “You’re . . . a long way . . . from the ‘real me’ yet,” he continued. Shan Yu shrugged and produced a long, very sharp knife. Gently he took the skin of Book’s ruined shoulder in one hand and made a six inch long cut. If Book felt it, then he didn’t let it show. It did have the effect of allowing his own salty blood to drip down into his mangled chest and produce more pain. “That the best you got?” Book asked, laughing weakly. “You call this suffering?” “You . . . mock me?” “Why not? What do I have to lose?” “The use of your thumbs,” the Tyrant said, picking up the rubber hammer again. The abuse continued. Each time the madman would finish another artful application of pain, he would inquire again to see if Book was willing to renounce his God and hail Shan Yu as divine. Each time the Shepherd spat back his words, followed by a prayer. “You start to intrigue me, old man,” Shan Yu admitted, while he clipped electrodes to Book’s ears with large alligator clips. “Don’t worry, this won’t permanently damage you – the current is just heavy enough to cause extreme pain.” He threw the switch on the transformer, and for a solid minute Book screamed loudly enough to be heard a lightyear away. Finally, the Tyrant turned it off. He checked the man’s pulse, then pulled his sagging chin back up into the light. “Had enough?” “Have . . .” Book whispered. “Have . . .” “Yes?” Shan Yu hissed, leaning his ear closer to the man. “Have . . . you . . . accepted Jesus . . . Christ as . . . your . . . personal savior?” Shan Yu grunted and applied more current to Book’s brainpan. A minute later he brought the man’s head back up into the stark, blinding light. “Are you willing to hail me as a god?” “God? No, you’re no god. You might be the Devil, though.” Shan Yu rolled his eyes. “Please. How quaint. The Devil? Shai-tan . . . Satan? Lucifer? Semitic mythology always bored me. The Zoroastrian dualism influence, I think, just isn’t very interesting. The Hindus, now they have a rich spiritual mythology.” “Devil . . . comes . . . in many . . . forms,” Book said, trying to catch his breath. “Get thee behind me, Satan!” His body convulsed with another sixty seconds of electricity. “Call me God, and all this pain ends. I can end it with a word. Name me your Lord and I will grant you a swift and painless death.” “Suicide . . . is a sin. So . . . is blasphemy,” Book gasped. “So is pride, if I recall correctly. And you are being quite prideful, Shepherd. Good. Keep it up. The harder you steel yourself, the more sweet my victory will be.” More electricity and more screams followed. Book’s hair was literally standing on end, having come out of its neat ponytail. “The Lord is my shepherd,” he muttered when the pain receded. “I shall not want . . .” More electricity. “. . . he . . . he maketh me lie down . . . in green . . . pa-pastures . . .” More electricity. “Call me master, and it all stops,” Shan Yu whispered into his tormented ear. “I’m just . . . starting to . . . have fun,” the Shepherd said, weakly. More electricity. More pain. Endless pain. Pain that threatened to overwhelm his mind, to drive him insane. He felt as if he were hanging onto a long, thin rope with one bloodied hand, oblivion below his feet. Then it stopped. “That’s enough for now – let’s take a short break, shall we?” Book didn’t respond, his head sagging low. “That will give you a chance to recover, and give me a chance for a well-deserved cup of tea.” He went back to the cart and pulled out a teapot, filled it with very, very old dry leaves, and added boiling water. “I’m curious: what was it that made you give up your former life . . . whatever that was . . . to become this? It’s clear that you were a warrior, once. But now? A pacifistic preacher of a dead religion? What glory is there in that?” “I follow a living God,” Book insisted. “The glory . . . is His. Not mine.” “That’s why my people bested yours so soundly, all those times. When Great China marched our millions across central Asia, we had the weight of millennia of culture and the majesty of empire to provide for us. The pathetic Euros? A half-hearted religion of Death and Pain that even they didn’t believe in. Which is ironic. The very symbol of your faith is an instrument of torture and execution. How could you draw sufficient strength from that to defend yourselves? Your God . . . should He exist . . . did not appear with His multitudes of angels to save you then. And He seems conspicuously absent right now.” “God . . . is here . . . right now. He sees . . . everything.” “You talk about the redemptive powers of you ‘savior’, yet where is he now? Where is the miracle you so desperately crave?” “If He . . . wants me . . . saved, He will . . . save me. Ain’t you . . . realized that maybe . . . God wants me here right now?” “If He was a decent god, he’d have saved you already.” Shan Yu sighed, pouring his tea. “That has been your religion’s failing, you know. It promises miracles, salvation, the Kingdom of Heaven. You were supposed to have victory over death, after the crucifixion. Eternal life. But I have seen many, many dead Christians in my time. Your religion is false. It gives you nothing.” “You misunderstand,” Book said, catching his breath finally. “The genius of Jesus,” Book whispered harshly, his voice hoarse from screaming, “was in His life. Not His death.” “Do tell,” the Tyrant said, scornfully, taking a large sip. “The Kingdom of Heaven wasn’t . . . a place.” “Obviously,” the Tyrant said, pouring himself more cup of tea. “The Kingdom of Heaven . . . lies within the hearts of . . . true Christians. Of . . . all men. All men. Amen.” “You’re boring me. Twenty five hundred years later, and He still hasn’t bothered to show up and save you all from Death. Unless you accept the Imperial European claim – dubious, at best, but so is the Miracle of Transubstantiation. But for close to three thousand years, you’ve been awaiting His return . . . and nothing. Face it: He isn’t going to show. Either He became disgusted at your behavior when you did not achieve his ultimatum, or He never really existed.” “Jesus didn’t give an ultimatum in His teaching. He gave . . . a blueprint.” “And what was that?” “Love thy neighbor.” “That’s it? You distill the essence of your entire religion down to a trite platitude?” “Love thy neighbor. That’s all it takes,” the preacher said, weakly. “That an’ nothin’ more. Even if the Devil is your neighbor, you love him.” He turned his eyes up, stared into the light that seemed to penetrate every cell in his body, the light of Hell and pain and sin. There was a faint shadow that was Shan Yu, a blurry silhouette that Book barely noticed, until he was ready to make his point. “I . . . love . . . you . . . Shan Yu. Destroyer. Tyrant. Murderer. All you’ve done. All the death you have dealt in this unkind ‘verse. Untie me now, and I shall not raise up my hand against thee. For I am a man of goodwill. I follow the Prince of Peace. And I love you. Tear out my eyes and spill my guts, and I will love you. Cut off my hands and my privates and I will love you. Burn my tongue from my head and my heart will sing of my love for you – hate the sin, not the sinner. You think you’re so bad, so elite, so elect. You are but a man – a sick man, a sinful, prideful, evil man, but you . . . all you have done, you are still worthy of love.” “Shut up that rubbish,” growled Shan Yu, throwing his hot tea into Book’s face. Book did not scream, but he did whimper. “I . . . love . . . you!” he whispered hoarsely. “You cannot change that!” “Shut up!” the Tyrant said. Book had an eerie look of victory in his eyes, as if he was at last understanding some great Mystery. “You cannot take that away from me! I love you! You are my brother, and I am my brother’s keeper!” “Shut up!” Shan Yu shouted, picking up the rubber mallet again. “Let us see how much love you can muster with every bone in your hands smashed to pulp!” Before he could make good his promise, the door opened and a young officer of the White Tigers came in and politely cleared his throat. “What is it!” Shan Yu hissed, irritated. “Master, I hesitate to interrupt you, but the Major ordered—” “Yes? Out with it!” “The Major respectfully requests that you accompany me and my men. We are to escort you to the new command post immediately. The bandits have attacked in force and have breached our perimeter. As most of the men have already been moved to the new site, the Major has ordered a withdrawal, to conserve our strength.” Shan Yu sighed. “Very well.” He dropped the mallet on the deck. “Let me finish up here, and we can go. No doubt the Major is correct in his professional assessment, and as much fun as this is, I bow to his perspective.” The soldier drew his pistol. “Shall I terminate this prisoner?” he asked casually. Shan Yu stared at Book for a moment. “Oh, no. That would let him off too easily. He’s a crafty one, this Shepherd. He raised my ire. There has not been a subject in ten years – well, a hundred and twenty eight years – that has raised my ire while I work.” He bent down and pulled Book’s bloodied face up to meet his gaze. “We will leave him here, just as he is. If he doesn’t bleed to death, he will die of thirst – and there are few worse ways to die. If his God exists, He can arrange for his rescue. But his friends will be ignorant. There are hundreds, if not thousands of rooms in this section of the ship alone. The doors and bulkheads are thick. They could pass through the corridor right outside this room while you were screaming your lungs out, and they would never hear him. Consider this the ultimate test of your faith, Shepherd. If your God of Love places any value in you, then you will be saved from death.” He straightened. “I find I favor the tragic irony of it all. Who knows? Perhaps He will send an angel to find you!” Without another word, he left, sealing the hatch behind him. He left the light glaring in Book’s face, though, and his life’s blood seeping out of his body, down the chair, and onto the floor. And he left the pain. A long time later, Book heard – or at least felt the vibrations – of automatic gunfire. He barely reacted. A while after that he heard muffled voices, and soon the door creaked back open. The form of Malcolm Reynolds – an unlikely angel – stood there. “We got him!” he yelled excitedly. “He’s alive, but he’s hurt! Doc, you’re up!” “What . . . what took you so long?” he whispered dully. While Simon came in and carefully examined his wounds, Mal used the knife from the cart to cut the restraints away. Book brought his damaged hands around and cradled them protectively in his arms while Simon dressed the worst of his wounds. “H-how . . . did . . . you find . . . me?” “River,” Mal supplied. “She got a way with matters as that.” The big man scowled as he watched Simon work, spraying healing foams and placing adhesive bandages, while skintabs of painkillers and nutrients placed on Book’s neck – one of the few areas of his body that had escaped direct violence – pumped medicines into his battered body. “Jesus, Shepherd, they did a number on you!” Mal said, shaking his head. His voice was layered with disgust and awe, both for the extent and severity of the punishment and Book’s ability to survive it. “Don’t . . . blaspheme . . . boy!” he choked out, looking at Mal through lidded, tearful eyes. He looked up, as in a daze, looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Then he looked up at Mal’s broad, worried-looking face. He cleared his throat. “Captain,” he said, as formally as he could manage it. “Would you do me the kindness of loaning me your pistol?”